


Breed

by littlecloud



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Branding, F/M, Family, Kind of maybe could be canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlecloud/pseuds/littlecloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor was angry when he noticed her brand. </p><p>Loosely based on Bass's line from 2x16: “Of all the guys you choose to screw, you choose a Monroe."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know where I am going with this, and it most likely won't be long! However, I knew I needed to write something regarding Bass' line in 2x16 about Charlie screwing a Monroe. Because that was the best ever. This is something of a back story for it. 
> 
> Also, Charlie and Connor are obviously involved, but this story is definitely Bass/Charlie, which is why I didn't tag them as a pairing. :)

Connor was angry when he noticed her brand. His eyes flashed, saturated with feeling, honey tinged red, as he held her wrists to the dirt and the raised ‘M’ shone – slightly pinker than the rest of her skin.

To him, their sex was deliberate; he had considered who was beneath him, and felt honored for the opportunity. Charlie Matheson, intelligent, worldly, but a little impulsive and slave to her carnal needs enough to not remember the surname of her lover. His name, his breed, how his father had already marked his territory on her.

If she had thought about it, she would have chosen someone else. Or at least had time to accept that the boy would soon go running to Daddy, ready to report what he saw.

He softened inside of her, and distance was between them once more. Charlie felt small again – not young, but naïve, almost offended by his wordless escape back into the desert. She waded in the isolation for a while, a small shake attaching to her that she would blame on the continuing quiver between her thighs.

But she knew she needed to pick herself back up; the air was cool where she remained exposed. Not a moment too late, her shirt hardly atop her head, Monroe came charging into their camp. He had been on watch, second shift, at their station a couple hundred yards away. The late hour did not seem to have affected his spirit any. It never did. If anything, he had more energy at night, like a wolf, bloodthirsty when everyone else is at their weakest.

Before she could resist, he wrapped his calloused fingers around her arm and nudged it over to bare the underside. He gaped at the scar, his scar, intensely, as if he could taste the seared flesh of her early wound. “Jesus, Charlotte,” he snapped, abruptly disjoining from her. “Why would you…? Does Rachel know about this?”

The mention of her mother made Charlie wince. She tried to scoff visibly, nearly choking on the lump in her throat. “I don’t know. It’s a long story.” Suddenly, she was very self-conscious. Her hair, damp with her and Connor’s perspiration, was plastered to her forehead. Her eyes were tired, though not bloodshot, the blue bruised grey either by exhaustion or the emptiness in her heart. It seemed strange that Monroe did not know all that she had suffered to end him, although he acted like he did. And she had, too. Whenever it was brought up, she would bark at him as if he had been watching her every move for the past year and a half, blaming him for things he had not a clue he had done.

“Connor…” he trailed off, voice softening as his eyes traveled even farther from hers, “he’s pissed. At me. I didn’t do this to you.” As if she needed convincing.

Charlie smiled at the ground. She decided that this would be a no eye contact sort of conversation, which was rare between her and Monroe; usually, simple glances were their best form of communication. It was easier, though, to say, “Your son should learn to shut his mouth. If he doesn’t like it, he can look at something else.”

“Dammit, Charlie.”

His use of her nickname was startling, raw, like he had sunk his dirt-encrusted nails into a cut on her body. Like speaking without eye contact, it was unusual for them. Unnatural. “If you hate us so much, why did you come to New Vegas? You could have just stayed behind. Be a cowgirl back in Texas, convince Miles to wear a cowboy hat, whatever it is you want.”

“Your son is cute, Monroe.” She felt her face brighten, less weighed down by scarlet, and more peachy – someone who felt in control. Admitting her intentions allowed Charlie to revert to her baseline, uncaring nature. “And I am bored.”

Confused, his lips parted. Orbs of saliva pooled in the corners. The inside of his mouth, Charlie noticed, seemed wet and hot, and he looked vaguely attractive.

“You have to be kidding me.”

She cocked her head to the side, questioning his meaning.

He dared to lock her gaze. “You’re screwing my son? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh. He didn’t tell you that part.” It wasn’t surprising, but Charlie had to laugh. Connor was fooling himself if he thought he had a quarter of the strength of his father, or even the potential to gain it. How pathetic – fully prepared to share her business without stating his involvement, like them fucking was actually significant.

Monroe, on the other hand, did not seem amused. He nodded towards her wrist, presumably at the brand, and sullenly said, “Guess that makes more sense, then, now.”

Shifting around with the toe of his boot, its laces perfectly snug as only a former President could govern, he began to meander back towards their station, the moon threatening to falter as night rolled on. “Get some sleep, Charlotte. You’re on watch in a couple hours, and Hell if I am going to let us get murdered because you’ve wasted all of energy on your libido,” he called backwards. Charlie could easily accept that he was right, that the early morning would arrive soon and she would have another sixteen hours of constant patrolling and attention to detail. But as she laid back down to sleep, the thumping from New Vegas’ chaos only a couple miles away being her only lullaby, an image could not be wiped from inside her eyelids: his stare, so unlike the ire in Connor’s cringe, fluttering up and along the path of her brand.

Like walking across it, until he recoiled entirely from her, the detachment more excruciating than being abandoned mid-sex.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, it’s interesting,” he proposed, commanding awareness. She had only been half-listening before this. “Of all the guys you choose to screw, you choose a Monroe."

Returning to Willoughby began to sound better and better, especially after a few days on the road. The trip felt familiar to Charlie, nearly identical to her first ride to Texas with Monroe months back, when they had little more of a relationship than a truce to not kill each other while they slept. Except it was more painful this time around; neither wanted to kill the other, merely avoid awkwardness and hurt feelings. Now, they _cared_ about each other, albeit nonverbally.

And maybe it was foolish, but the best distraction from concerning over Monroe Sr. was to focus on his son. Together, they had had sex in more than three provinces of America, and each occasion seemed to happen in a new landscape. Sometimes Charlie ended up with dust in her hair and sand in her panties, sometimes blades of grass stained her knees a pale jade.

It was thrilling, but her bones relentlessly reminded her that sex in a bed, too far for Connor’s dad to be in earshot, would be much more comfortable.

They had traveled hundreds of miles without so much as two sentences to one another and without a single glance that could translate as a message. If Charlie stood on her tippy-toes, she could see, over a mass of trees, Willoughby in the distance. A skip was in her step – one that Monroe noticed. From behind, he jogged up beside her, and decided to talk idly.

She wasn’t wholly opposed to the idea; after all, it was Connor who had made it awkward for them. There was no way she would be ashamed of Monroe knowing that she had sexual needs, too, as long as he kept his attention drawn away from her brand. It was trouble enough on its own, itching miserably before thunderstorms or when she came in contact with certain fabrics. Remembering him whenever she pawed at it was more than Charlie could take. She had her fair share of uncomfortable thoughts about him while pulling her clothes off, washing in a bath, any time his initial grazed a sensitive part of her body. Monroe’s “M” already felt too intimate to be engraved into her skin, yet it became more personal with the knowledge that he owned at least a minor part of Charlie.

“You know, it’s interesting,” he proposed, commanding awareness. She had only been half-listening before this. “Of all the guys you choose to screw, you choose a Monroe."

Rustling in the bushes, and something churning in Charlie’s abdomen, interrupted him. With a shaky hand, she raised her gun towards the sound – one of the few times she had done so without acquiescing for Monroe’s approval first. Her men followed suit.

Finger on the trigger, the weapon’s metal broiling against her scar. In the distance, she watched Connor stumble a bit, further compromising their position to stealth back into town. Charlie did not know if his futility made it worse or not; she couldn’t help but compare him to his father, who he was obviously inferior to, and it pleased her a little, to assure herself that the man she was sleeping with wasn’t much of a Monroe, and it disappointed her a little too, because she realized his father was him but better.

Two shadows dodged from the wilderness. Rachel and Miles. Her mother commented on how bad she looked, and Charlie felt that same ache of insecurity again, brain elsewhere from Willoughby despite it being home in her mind for the last week. Loosely, she heard Monroe mention her possession of their army to Miles – a compliment in its own right – but was otherwise ignored. Nothing was mentioned of her and Connor, nor did he approach her again until late in the evening.

A slow knock upset her door. Connor did not wait for her to welcome him, instead stepping inside and immediately closing it behind him.

“He’s asleep,” he mumbled, referring to Monroe, who he had not yet developed a name for yet, because ‘dad’ seemed too significant and ‘Monroe’ too detached. They had been sharing the room beside Charlie’s, the walls so thin that their snores felt virtually tangible to her in the middle of the night. Somehow, she had gotten used to the rhythm the puffs of air Monroe released while sleeping made, most intense when he dreamed, even forming words that only sometimes made sense. Even clawing at the terrain sometimes. The physical act of slumber, that she had memorized of Monroe’s. Next door, she heard no trace of that; Connor had not grown accustom to his father’s patterns yet, perhaps due to the newness of their relationship.

Charlie shook her head, finding it difficult to not sound condescending when she spoke. “No, he’s not. Do you hear anything?” She paused. “He isn’t snoring. He probably is just pretending to sleep.”

He was too boyish to care, she realized, when he made an imprecise grunt of acknowledgement. One of his fingers raked through a wave in her hair, which he used to pull her mouth to his. She exhaled into him – never that fond of kissing, but a diversion still. Just as he dragged his tongue against her lips, urging them apart, Charlie stepped back.

“He’s not sleeping,” she repeated. “These walls are thin as hell. He can hear.”

He began to play with her belt loop. He used it to relax her pants, leading them up and down to cause friction against the delicate flesh of her hip. “You know an awful lot about my father,” Connor commented, “I get the feeling you have some history.”

And Charlie smiled, because at least in the past, he was far away. It made it easy to drag Connor into her bed – forget about how full the silence from Monroe's room felt, begging his son to make her full instead.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not happy with this one, I had to kind of rush through it, but there will be more soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monroe really, really does not appreciate Charlie screwing his son in the next room over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the entirety of this chapter on a mobile device, so there are most likely many errors. Please tell me if you see them. I apologize. ♥ 
> 
> Also, yay somewhat flirting!

At the brink of dawn, just before anyone else was expected to awake in the house, Connor scattered from Charlie's room back into the hallway. From her bed, she listened, hoping he would make it to his room alright and uninterrupted. Soon, she heard whispering outside the door - two male voices, almost certainly two Monroes. Neither sounded irritated, just rushed and not accommodating to the other. Then, their door set in its hinge, and Charlie knew that Connor had pulled a blanket over his head, ready to indulge his exhaustion. After sex, he tended to feel deliriously sleepy, or just pissed that she would never let him stay beside her overnight.

A sigh fled her mouth, nostrils inhaling the air of the home around her. Finally, comfort. She could sleep without worrying about flecks of earth burning her eyes.

Charlie had not been asleep long, if at all, when a bang at the door awoke her with a jolt. Her first instinct was to curl beneath the covers, layer their warmth over herself like it was a bulletproof vest, but snapped out of it to reach for her blade. Patriots could be invading. Already taken her family hostage, her ass the last available to save them.

Her vision was misty, the blur of sex and slumber. However, she recognized him immediately.

"Charlotte, I really don't appreciate you keeping my son from sleeping all night," Monroe growled. He looked disheveled, shirt wrinkled and face sunken, as if he had been tossing and turning for hours. It didn't occur to her how she looked - scantily clad, posing a weapon. "And for God's sake, put the damn knife down."

She did as he ordered, then laid opposite of him. "I really don't appreciate you keeping me awake, and if you are mad because we kept you awake, just say so. For now, I am going to happily close my eyes."

There was a slight breeze as he approached the edge of her bed; she could feel him stepping closer without needing to see it. But she was unconcerned, and he had to repeat her name several times for her to give him any more attention. A dip was created on the mattress, Monroe resting but a couple inches from her nearly unconscious body.

"I am not going to tell Miles about you and my son,” he offered, like it was a favor to her, "but you should not be banging him. We have these red, white, and blue assholes on our sights all the time, you can't be distracting him."

Charlie moaned into her pillow, where she so desired to hide. "Can we please do this later? I am damn tired, and I couldn't give a shit who knows about us."

“I really don't appreciate you screwing with him, Charlotte." He didn’t back down.

She shifted onto her bottom, acknowledging that she would get no sleep until Monroe finished his sermon, and faced him to say, "I thought you liked that I chose someone in your bloodline." It was meant to be mocking, even challenging, but she feared, as she spoke, that it might appear flirtatious.

Laugh lines sprouting below his cheeks, Monroe gave a big smile. Charlie was fascinated by how young he seemed when he was amused by something, how his emotions always enraptured his entire body.

"Honored, more like it," he clarified with a shrug. "It is about time someone recognizes how great my genes are."

"I am not sleeping with Connor because he has your genes. Gross."

Monroe pretended to accept that, though his response was spoken sarcastically through gritted teeth. "Sure. If that were the case, you would have already realized he is second best. Kid might look like me, even talk like me, but he has never run a Republic." Both he and Charlie looked down at her wrist; it seemed to be nothing either could forget for the time being, a constant elephant in the room. "Never been in the army or lost someone he loves or learned how to properly satisfy a woman."

Horrified, Charlie raised her eyebrows.

"Don't be a prude. I am in the very next room, and if he was really that good, you would sound more excited. Or at least not have to get yourself off." His grin widened cheekily, pleased to get under her skin less literally.

Bubbles rose up her esophagus. She grumbled, "I am going to throw up."

"Believe me," he rested his hand on top of the sheets, skimming over the placement of her feet below them, "the last thing I want to hear is you two go at it. So, please, Charlotte, consider what you're doing. You're not accomplishing anything by screwing my son."

"There is something called getting off that I accomplish very well, actually," she explained, drawing out each syllable to remind him of his folly. Monroe, smile never departing, stood up to leave, his expression leading Charlie to think that he believed he won this argument.

Just before twisting the doorknob to go, he swiveled around for some final advice: "Masturbation is always an option. Or, you know, sex with anyone else on the planet."

Charlie groaned again, as loud as she could, and rolled her eyes to boot. Their bodies paralleled each other; his enjoyment, whether feigned or genuine, and her frustration bouncing off one another, the tension always landing at the slice of a letter on her wrist. They could act like they weren't thinking of it, but somehow, it would not get out of his or her sight. Now, sex with anyone but a Monroe seemed...off when she her body held his brand.


End file.
